


How To (Not) Beg Efficiently

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: Secretive 'verse [12]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Begging, F/M, Post-Series, Sibling Incest (implied), Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 23:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4324368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just say the word, Sara,” he whispers. “Say it and it’s over.” (Post-series, alternate canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To (Not) Beg Efficiently

A low sound, something between a growl and a wail, breaks free of Sara’s throat and fills the sultry air of the bedroom.

Michael licks his lips. That’s good, but it could be better.

Sara’s half-sobbing, and that’s good, but not nearly enough yet.

With a dark grin, he looks up at her. She’s flushed and sweaty, her skin glistening with perspiration and her face tense in pleasure and pain. The pleasure exceeds the pain, but not by much.

Not pain, he corrects himself as the muscles of her stomach ripple beneath his light kiss. Need. Raw, unashamed, unleashed, maddening. Holding her gaze through his lashes, he trails his tongue up the wet and swollen slit hidden at the V of her thighs. The stroke is slow and hard, insistent. He takes the time to taste her and make her _feel_ him; he ends it with a too-light swirl around her clit.

This time, she screams and bucks. She tries to move away and into the caress at the same time, only to be held down by Lincoln, his arms and legs strong around her.

They’ve been at it for a while now, and she’s starting to show signs of exhaustion: breath coming out in short, ragged puffs, stomach and limbs quivering, voice rough from moaning and shouting. She smells like musk and tang, she smells of temptation and desperation. It takes all of Michael’s willpower not to cave in and give her what she wants.

He lowers his eyes to her crotch. More slickness surges from her, tiny pearls of love and lust. He catches it with his tongue and savors it, his reward.

She’s on her back, pinned down like a butterfly, and certainly shivering like one. Her thighs are splayed open and maintained that way by Lincoln’s legs, her hips trapped between Lincoln’s knees. Offered and indecent, unable to move and stark naked when both men are still fully clothed; at their mercy except for the fact that they don’t show any. The power play lacks any basic subtlety but isn’t any less efficient for that.

Michael points his tongue and presses the tip of it against her. He loves this; loves to feel her most intimate flesh throb, clench and unclench for him. He doesn’t even need to push a finger into her because her body seems to drag it in on its own, desperate for _something_ to wrap around.

He could ask Lincoln to open his pants and take her, fill her, thick erection stretching her. For selfish reasons, he doesn’t say anything. This afternoon, it’s her taste, her feel, her warmth only that he wants. Salty, rich and musky, and becoming even more of all that with each passing second, each stroke of tongue, each teasing touch.

Her fingers reach for the nape of his neck. Obviously, Lincoln has released her wrists and found something even better to do with his own hands than restraining hers. He’s now cupping her breasts and massaging them with as much roughness as care, the pads his thumbs rolling over her nipples every so often. Michael nods his head in appreciation; Sara bites her lips in desperation.

She brought this upon herself, Michael reminds her, speaking right against the entrance to her body, lips and tongue taunting her with each word. He’d playfully told her he was going to make her beg for it, and she replied with a “You wish!” that, with hindsight, sounded like a declaration of war. Never, ever challenge Michael when he’s decided to make her feel good because he will make it his mission to drive her out of her mind. Lincoln has reminded her of this with a hypocritical sympathetic shake of head, just before tackling her down on Michael’s command.

A second finger slides into her easily. He needs to force for the third one because she’s clenching, suddenly too tight to let him in, shrinking instinctively around the digits to keep them inside of her and lure them deeper. He thrusts them, crooks them, tries to find that spot inside her that...

... right, the one that makes her arch up and cry out _just like that_.

And yet, she still has to beg. She has moaned, panted, shouted, insulted them, yes; begged, no. “You’re stronger than me,” Lincoln tells her and, maybe because it’s a matter of pride for him to have her yield, he shifts beneath her so his mouth can reach her breasts. His tongue wraps around her right nipple with a wet sound. The fingers of his left hand catch a few tears escaping from the corner of her eyes; he offers them to Michael’s mouth.

Michael sucks on the proffered fingers and runs a soothing hand – the one that’s not knuckle deep in Sara – up her stomach. She’s covered in shiny droplets of perspiration, her skin as burning as if she was running a fever, so sensitive that the smallest touch has her jolt and whimper.

“Just say the word, Sara,” he whispers. “Say it and it’s over.” He almost begs himself, which is so not how this is supposed to play out.

She strives to speak a first time, fails, swallows hard, and tries again. “Fuck you.”

Lincoln chuckles into her neck, still torturing her upper half in the nicest way, but slowly falling onto her side because really, someone has to teach Michael some boundaries here. Maybe also because her breasts are in his hands, her bottom is pressing into his stomach, her whimpers falling against the side of his face. He’s not made of stone.

Michael parts her. He opens her like a ripe fruit and uncovers the hard nub of flesh he’s only teased up until now. He goes straight for it now, lips, tongue and even a hint of teeth, sucks it into his mouth, and cajoles it. How slippery, silky, tangy she is when they do that, he can never forget it, and yet he’s always taken aback by how good she feels, tastes, smells. Her savor bursts on his taste buds, her scent obliterates everything else.

Before he can even think about what he’s saying, he’s pleading against her. A ramble of _Sara_ and _Love you_ and _Give this to me_ escapes him; and then a fateful string of _Please_ s that has her still for a split second. Her fingers, which have been clutching at the nape of his neck, slide down his jaw and tip his head up. She’s nice, nicer than he is, because there’s satisfaction in her eyes, but not to the point of triumph.

“You lost your own challenge, man,” Lincoln thinks it appropriate to blurt out. He kisses Sara deep and sloppy as if to acknowledge her victory.

Who cares? Who fucking cares? Michael will be shocked by his own greediness – later. For now, he latches onto her and loses himself in a frenzy of sucking and tonguing, loses himself in her broken whimpers of pleasure and in the way her muscles clamp hard and fast against him.

He licks her, in and out, and licks his lips. He cleans her, or pretends to, until she whines with oversensitivity and pulls him up against her breasts. She cradles him into her arms. Her mouth quirks in a slow and lazy smile, almost a dirty one, and he understands why, what she’s up to, when she’s finally able to speak again.

“Michael... Oh, God, Michael, let me come.”

He startles, throws a glance up at Lincoln and sees that his brother is laughing, the asshole.

Her mouth to his ear, her voice rough and exhausted, Sara breathes out the words she’s been refusing him, and she makes a damn good job of sounding as far gone as she effectively was minutes ago.

“Please, Michael... _Please_.”

He blinks and mutters under his breath about _bad_ and _fucking you into next week_. There’s no promise to make her beg for it, though, which at least is evidence that Michael can learn from his mistakes.

“So,” Lincoln grunts. “What now?”

“Now?”

Sara pours from between the two men and into the mattress, limp and worn-out – fucked-out – just enough energy left for mischief and a need to retaliate.

“He’s good with his mouth, and if you play your cards right, he’ll beg you to come.”

-End-

Comments and/or kudos are always welcome and appreciated :)


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